


hard to dance with the devil on your back

by la_victorienne



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-09
Updated: 2011-12-09
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:38:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10554932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: It’s innocent enough, tapping the young man on the shoulder, offering up the nearly-lost mobile he’d swiped off of the café table. When the guy turns around, though, it turns into something totally different.





	

“Mate—your phone.”

It’s innocent enough, tapping the young man on the shoulder, offering up the nearly-lost mobile he’d swiped off of the café table. When the guy turns around, though, it turns into something totally different.

“Thanks,” the guy says, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’d be fucked without that.”

Eames shrugs. “Saw you leave it, no trouble. Are you—look, are you all right? I saw—I don’t mean to be nosy, you just seem really flustered, and I want to help, if I can.”

He’s met with a harsh, wry laugh. “Not unless you can raise the dead,” the guy quips, and Eames frowns. “Sorry, I just—I got some bad news, I was going to, uh. Get drunk about it, actually, so cheers.”

“How old are you?” It comes out before Eames can stop it, and the guy’s face crumples. “Shit, sorry, I don’t—I don’t mean that you seem young, I just—I haven’t been drinking in a bar before noon in a few years. Why don’t you—okay, this is going to sound weird, but—you could come to mine. It’s just round the corner, I have plenty of booze—fuck, I’m sorry, I swear I’m not—okay. Look, mate, I hope you’re all right, I’m sorry about—whoever, and—“

“ _Yes_ ,” the guy says, his entire body sagging with the word. “Shut up, the answer is yes, I would much rather go to some stranger’s apartment to get drunk instead of a bar, there are fewer people to watch me lose it. I’m Arthur, can we please just go.”

“Nice—nice to meet you, Arthur, I’m Eames. It’s this way, I—live just down here. Do you—did you mean it, about?”

Arthur shrugs as they’re walking, just around the corner and halfway down, up two flights of stairs and into his flat. “I kind of don’t want to talk about it.”

“Yeah, I get that. Well, uh, here—this is it. Let me take your coat, and make yourself at home. I’ll just—what do you drink?”

Arthur snorts and flops onto Eames’ sofa. “Anything, I don’t care. I just want to—oh, fuck.”

And there it is, the part Eames had been waiting for, the unmistakable sound of a man trying not to cry. It breaks Eames’ heart. He drops the coat on a table and is at the sofa in moments, reaching out gingerly to pull Arthur into his embrace. “Shit—it’s okay, mate, it’s okay. Come on, it’s all right, I’m right here—“

Arthur gloms onto him in seconds, tucking his face into Eames’ neck, shoulders shaking sporadically. “I didn’t even see her that often, she was almost sixteen years older. Step-sister, and all. But now she’s—she’s gone,” he finishes flatly. “She killed herself, is what Dad said, but. There’s—there’s going to be an investigation, they don’t know—fuck, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to unload this on you, I don’t even know you.” Arthur pushes away half-heartedly, but Eames holds him fast, stroking blunt fingertips over his neck.

“You unload anything you want on me, darling. I know what it’s like to lose someone, yeah? Stay, as long as you need. Okay?”

He’s surprised at how much of his flash-in-the-pan military med training is coming back to him; he’s been out of the army for years, now, but dealing with a man in shock is the same, even if his instincts with Arthur are a bit more touchy-feely than any of his brothers in arms. He just sits there and waits for Arthur to even out his breathing, stop shaking, release his death-grip on Eames’ shirt, all while running the flat of his palm over Arthur’s shoulders, strong and even, just a reminder that someone is there. Arthur shudders into his shoulder, sheds a few tears, and finally pulls back, wiping his eyes. “Thanks, I—thanks.”

Eames smiles, recognizing the end of the moment. “Of course. Now—do you still want that drink? Or maybe just some water?”

Arthur stands when Eames does, already fidgeting. “I’m—I think I’m good, thanks. I just—I should go home, book a ticket back. I should be with—yeah.”

Eames shrugs. “Okay. But look, I know this sounds—considering the circumstances, it probably doesn’t sound that odd, but I should say anyway, if you need anything, you—let me know. I’ve got a vested interest in you now, haven’t I.” He hands over a business card, with his cell number on it. “Even if you never use it, would you—just to make me feel better?”

Arthur takes the card, turns it over in his fingers (his really nice, manicured fingers, which is entirely inappropriate but crosses Eames’ mind anyway), and smiles a half-smile up at him. “Yeah, I—you know, I will, thanks. I really appreciate it, Eames. Thanks for not being a serial killer preying on a grief-stricken graduate student.”

“I’m glad I could help.” He holds the door open, and leans against the jamb as Arthur walks out, fully expecting to never see him again. It’s not the strangest encounter he’s ever had, Eames thinks, and puts the kettle on for a cup of tea before settling down at his desk.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s a couple weeks before he sees Arthur again, sitting in the same booth in the café, looking like he’s having at least something of a better day. Eames waves, and sits down at his own table before Arthur frowns and gestures him over.

“You could sit here,” he says, rolling his eyes. “As long as you’re still not a serial killer.”

Eames sets down his cappuccino next to Arthur’s. “Still not a serial killer. How are you? Besides back, I mean.”

Arthur shrugs. “I—I guess I’m just trying to work through it. My family didn’t want me to come back so soon, but I was going a little crazy.”

“Yeah, families do that. I’m glad you’re back.”

When Arthur smiles, it’s startling. Eames smiles back, eyes fixed on the dimples in his cheeks, on the curves of his smile, until they disappear and Eames realizes Arthur is looking at his mouth, too.

He suddenly feels uncomfortable in his seat. The way he feels about Arthur, how much he wants him, defies all sense of rationale. He wants to lean across the table and taste the sweep of Arthur’s cheek, wants to press his fingers underneath the cuff of Arthur’s sleeve. He wants to bring him back to the apartment and hold him on the sofa, this time undoing his buttons one by one. He wants to lick across the blush in Arthur’s collarbone, leave a mark there, and oh, fuck. There is nothing about this that’s appropriate for a guy you met in a café, a guy you held while he mourned his dead sister, for fuck’s sake. He pushes his cappuccino away.

“I should—I should go, actually, it was—I’m glad to see you, Arthur, have a good evening.”

Arthur lays a hand on his wrist. “Eames.”

Eames turns, waits for Arthur to finish, although it takes a mountain of willpower to look him in the eyes. When he does, he’s surprised by what he sees—as if he’s not the only one who’s been struck by something life-altering and is trying to come to terms with it.

“Eames. Take me home.”

So he does, Arthur’s hand tight in his all the way back to the flat around the corner, his other hand in his pocket, fingernails digging into the skin as if pinching himself hard enough will wake him up. But he doesn’t wake up, and Arthur is still there when he shuts the door, looking at his mouth again, standing in Eames’ living room looking a lot more sure of himself than the last time he was there.

“Arthur,” Eames starts—but the point is moot because Arthur is in his space, pressing a firm, warm kiss to Eames’ mouth.

“No more talking,” he murmurs into Eames’ lips. “Don’t overthink this.”

How can I not overthink this, Eames wants to say, how can I not think about what happens after this and will you stay with me forever and can I make you happy for the rest of time, would that be all right—but Arthur’s kissing him again and the honorable thing to do, really, is to wrap arms around him and kiss back. And Arthur is lithe and lovely in his arms, and the way he kisses makes Eames’ think of holidays in France, holding hands in the gardens of Giverny or kissing in the Louvre, an entire future that Eames has no trouble imagining and will get him into very serious trouble very quickly, if the sounds Arthur is making are any indication.

“Fuck—Arthur, bedroom,” he manages, hands on Arthur’s hips, pushing him towards the hall. “Unless you’re more a sofa kind of guy—“

Arthur pulls back, eyes narrowed. “The last time I was on that sofa I cried into your shirt. No, thank you, the bedroom will do just fine.”

Eames is in over his head, he can already tell. And he _wants_ it, wants it so much it hurts. And Arthur bites his lip before he heads to the back of the apartment, leaves a sharp point of hurt that feels amazing, and Eames just follows, without having to be told.

“God, you’re huge,” Arthur mutters when he gets Eames’ shirt off, running his hands over ill-advised tattoos and one or two battle scars. “I fucking love it,” he hisses, and leaves a welt of a bite on Eames’ shoulder, a bruise that won’t heal properly for days. “Flex, would you—just flex for me? Fuck,” he swears, and his eyes go dark when Eames does it.

“I feel distinctly objectified,” Eames says archly.

“Aw, honey, I’m sure you have a great personality too,” Arthur replies, flat and sarcastic, and arches like a cat when Eames pins him to the bed.

“My personality is fucking fantastic, I’ll have you know,” Eames whispers hoarsely.

“Yeah, I’m sure, Christ, fuck—can I fuck you? Is that—would that be weird? It’s all I can think about,” Arthur babbles, and its Eames’ turn to look down at him with dark eyes, blown out pupils, and kiss him hard.

“There’s condoms and lube in the drawer, Jesus—yes, of course you—mm.”

It’s all kisses and touches for a while after that, Arthur’s slender fingers rolling across Eames’ arse, until Eames takes the hint and rolls so Arthur can get at him. And then it’s all teeth and tongue and Arthur rolls his balls in his hand when he presses one finger in, and it makes Eames want so much he lets out a long, ragged moan and Arthur pauses to make sure he’s all right.

And when Arthur sinks inside him and can’t stop touching his arms, his chest, his lips—Eames pulls him until he can get his legs around Arthur’s waist, draw him in again and again, and it’s not the hard fast fuck he expected, it’s more comfortable, the kind of familiarity that’s born from crying on another man’s sofa. It’s yes, and please, and more, and God. It’s Arthur’s head, bowed as he moves, and his eyes closed like he’s memorizing what it feels like to be right here, right now. It’s the kiss he gets when he flicks across Arthur’s nipple, hard and wet and sweet, not at all what he would have expected. He’s not this lucky. He hasn’t been this lucky for years, and when Arthur wraps a hand around his cock and tugs in counter point he almost pushes his hand away, he doesn’t want it to end. Arthur slows down even more, if it’s possible, until they’re just tensing their bodies into each other, Arthur’s cock dragging across the nerves inside him with every movement, and Eames is sweating and gasping with it, up into Arthur’s mouth, a litany of desire. When he comes, it wracks his entire body—he can feel Arthur’s cock twitch inside him, and it just makes him shake harder, until he thinks he might vibrate until he breaks apart. And then there it is—the energy in him releasing, coming into Arthur’s fingers, every muscle in his body relaxing as he comes down, and Arthur comes down with him.

Arthur pulls out, panting, and ties off the condom, tossing it neatly in the bin. He comes back to the bed to lick out at Eames’ lips, murmuring something—oh. “Where’s the bathroom?”

Eames points, too fucked out to do anything except sit and wonder if Arthur is leaving. Not that he would blame him if he were, just—it would suck, for Arthur to walk out and Eames not be awake enough to ask him not to go. But Arthur comes back with a warm washcloth, instead, and tidies him up before curling back into Eames’ arms. “Is this okay?” Arthur asks, very quietly. “I can leave, if that’s what you want.”

Eames tightens his grip on Arthur’s waist. “I don’t want that. I don’t want that at all. Possibly ever. Is that okay? Is that weird?”

He’s in danger of babbling when Arthur leans up, presses a long, warm kiss to his mouth. “Shut up, Eames,” he says, and it’s fond, and sweet, and it sounds like home. “I want to stay. I wanted to stay that first day, but I had to go—and then how was I supposed to ask to come back, after I’d been a snotty mess on your shirt?” He pets over one of Eames’ tattoos, an old one, from before his officer training, and Eames can feel him smile. “I don’t know anything about you,” Arthur continues, much quieter. “But I couldn’t wait to come back and see you.”

Eames strokes his hand down Arthur’s spine, trailing down the jut of his hip. “I know just what you mean, darling. I know just what you mean.”

It’s still light outside, too early for dinner, much less for sleep. But they’re warm, and they’re comfortable, and in the glow from the window Eames can see the fine hair on Arthur’s thighs, the bow of his lashes, and it’s the closest to perfect he’s come in years. They lie there on the edge of sleep for hours, murmuring softly, getting to know each other, before Eames’ stomach rumbles loudly.

“Come on, old man, make me some dinner,” Arthur says, slapping his belly, and Eames scrambles after him. It’s the last thing he expected, returning the lost phone, but as Arthur presses him up against the counter, kisses him senseless, fingers in the waistband of his boxers, Eames thinks he could probably learn to live with it.

And fast.


End file.
